


Yes, And...

by aurora_australis, LeChatNoir1918



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: Drabbles and Ficlets, F/M, Fanart, Gen, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-12
Updated: 2020-08-22
Packaged: 2021-01-29 16:35:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 35
Words: 18,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21413272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aurora_australis/pseuds/aurora_australis, https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeChatNoir1918/pseuds/LeChatNoir1918
Summary: A series of drabbles and drawings inspired by each other. Ratings, characters, and tags all subject to change as each new chapter is posted.
Relationships: Phryne Fisher/Jack Robinson
Comments: 725
Kudos: 323





	1. I Wish You Would Write...

**Author's Note:**

> So... where to begin? Perhaps with the beginning. During the month of October, the _incredibly_ talented LeChatNoir1918 published [Inktober Drabbles](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20876735/chapters/49622849), a fabulous collection of her Inktober prompted drawings with accompanying drabbles/ficlets. Impressed as ever with her phenomenal work, I took a chance and proposed a somewhat unorthodox collaboration: a story, an image, a story, an image, each inspired by the one before it, but not necessarily ABOUT it. A way to draw inspiration from a different medium and build on it, going back and forth. "Like ping pong!", is, I believe, how I described it to her (I’m not very good at describing things as it turns out). But luckily she seemed keen nevertheless and so here we are! 
> 
> Updates will be as either of us is able, and this entire thing is an experiment, so we’ll see what happens. In any case, I finally get to work with LeChatNoir1918, so _I’m_ happy, and isn’t that the most important thing? ;-)
> 
> Title comes from, "Yes, and..." a guiding principle in improvisational comedy that asks a participant to accept what another participant has stated ("yes") and then expand on that line of thinking themselves ("and").
> 
> To kick us off, it only seemed right to use a story that was inspired by someone else, in this case the lovely whopooh, who made an ask of me on Tumblr a while back that I posted there by never on AO3: _"I wish you would write a fic where Phyrne and Jack are being competitive, jokingly, but it turns a little bit more serious than they would like to admit."_

She had no idea how she had ended up in this position. No, that was a lie, she knew _exactly_ how she’d ended up in this position. She was in this position because Jack Robinson was an arrogant arse who couldn’t handle a little friendly competition. (Also a lie, but she was on a roll now and uninterested in quibbling over details.) 

And, most importantly, being in this position was most definitely _not her fault_. (Only a half lie this time, not that anyone was around to appreciate that it was also a half truth. Probably even more than half truth, if she thought hard enough about it. And she had.)

So yes, to sum up, Jack Robinson was an arrogant arse and at least 57% responsible for her current situation.

Which was, as it happened, stranded halfway up the side of a building in the middle of the night.

With no rope.

Or Jack.

Arrogant arse.

Phryne sighed. This was not _at all _how she had intended her evening to go. She’d invited Jack over with the intention of putting on a lovely dress and having a lovely dinner with lovely conversation and then graciously allowing him to remove the lovely dress. The plan was simple and elegant, much like the aforementioned dress.

Now, also like the dress, it was shot to hell.

It had started innocently enough. They had been discussing their disparate investigative techniques which had led to the hypothetical question of whose was better. There had been a little good natured ribbing, some light teasing, nothing dramatic. But then Jack, the arse, had made a comment about her being lucky more often than not, especially when it came to her more covert operations. Lucky! As if skill played no part in it. She had retorted that he was the lucky one - if she hadn’t come along his solve rate would be lower by at least half. (That was another lie, to go along with the evening’s theme she supposed, but his comment had stung and so she had struck back.)

What followed next was swift and heated. An argument. A challenge. An acceptance of the terms.

First one to sneak into Prudence Stanley’s private parlour and _borrow_ her prized Ming vase wins.

Which is how she found herself halfway up the side of her aunt’s house in the middle of the night with not enough rope and too much time to think.

They had both begun this little adventure at the front gate, but had immediately run into a problem; Aunt Prudence had clearly beefed up security while they’d both been in England (there were only so many murders one could tolerate on one’s property after all) and neither she nor Jack were entirely certain of the best approach. They’d split up almost immediately though, and Phryne’s fox-like eyes (helped significantly by the almost full moon) had spotted an open window on the top floor. Using gardening tools and some rope in the shed (and really, well done her on that) she’d created a makeshift grappling hook and used it to scale the side of the building until the (clearly faulty) trowel section of the device had snapped and the entire thing had fallen to the ground below. Phryne had just managed to grab the molding that ran around the building in time. But now she was too far from the decorative feature that made up the next handhold to use it to continue her ascent. She sighed. It was looking more and more likely that she was going to need to break a window in this endeavor. Her aunt would NOT be pleased.

A noise from her left startled her back to the present and she looked over just in time to see Jack shuffle around the corner of the building. He, she noted bitterly, was tall enough to reach the next handhold, not that it was doing him much good. He slowly sidestepped over to her until they were about six inches apart.

“Miss Fisher.”

“Jack.”

“Fancy meeting you here,” he said dryly and she just managed to stifle a snort. She looked over to inquire as to what had taken him so long, and noticed that the bottom half of his right pant leg was missing, though he appeared to be uninjured.

“What on earth happened to your trousers?” she asked.

“Dog,” he said, his tone landing somewhere between chagrined and resigned.

This time Phryne couldn’t help it, she laughed. She laughed and she kept laughing until Jack joined her and then they laughed together.

When she was finally able to speak again, albeit with the occasional giggle still present, she conceded, “It is possible, Jack, that this whole thing has got a bit out of hand?”

He nodded and turned his head to face her, all laughter gone now. “I didn’t mean to insult you earlier. I know how skilled you are. I just…” he smiled, that self-deprecating smile she knew so well. “I suppose I just meant that sometimes it seems like even the unseen forces of the universe bend to Phryne Fisher.”

“As they damn well should,” she teased.

“As they damn well should,” he agreed.

“I’m sorry too,” Phryne continued. “Your solve rate is not dependent on me.”

“No,” he agreed again, “though I will happily admit we do work better as a team.”

“That we do, Jack. Speaking of, I’ve got an idea for getting to that window. How good is your grip on that molding?”

“Decent. Why?”

“Because I’m about to climb you to get to the window.”

“Of course you are.” This time his tone hovered between resigned and skeptical. But he lowered his shoulder to let her climb more easily all the same.

When she was securely on his back, she ducked her head to place a kiss on his cheek. “You’re not really an arse,” she told him.

“Thank you?” was his confused reply.

Phryne laughed lightly then scrambled up his person to swing inside the open window…

…where she was met with a shocked and positively furious Prudence Stanley.

“Phryne! What is heaven’s name are you doing?”

“Good evening Aunt P! We were just…”

Phryne looked down to see that Jack was surreptitiously making his way back around the corner of the building and out of sight.

She sighed.

Arse.

***

_aurora_australis_


	2. Climbing Walls

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, and... hello from me as well! :D I still can't quite believe I get to collab with _ the _ aurora_australis, whom I've admired for a very long time (how could I not, she's amazing!?!). I'm definitely still blushing about the incredibly kind praise she included in the intro. Needless to say I was immediately intrigued when she proposed this idea (and what a great idea it is!! AND what a fantastic drabble to kick things off with!!!). 
> 
> So this first drawing isn't strictly an "and", because it is very much reminiscent _ of _ the drabble BUT this idea of Phryne climbing Jack stuck with me and I had to see them conquer a wall together. As we go forward this will truly become a "Yes, And"... and not just "Yes", I promise. (haha, any confusion really was due on my part, aurora_australis explained the idea very well).
> 
> Anyway, I believe aurora_australis said everything else that needs to be said about this. I am _ SO excited _ that I get to work with such an amazingly talented human being. I can't wait to see where this takes us!

***

***

_LeChatNoir1918_


	3. Menace

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp, two days in and I'm already upping the rating to T. I think LeChatNoir1918 might be a bad influence on me... ;-)

T-strap heels were, quite frankly, a goddamn menace.

First of all, they were impractical. Two thin strips of leather could not possibly provide sufficient ankle support when pursuing a suspect or rappelling down a building or doing whatever else Miss Fisher got up to and then conveniently forgot to tell him about.

Second, they were distracting. Two thin strips of leather should not be that alluring. And what’s worse, she had this habit of twirling her foot when she talked on the telephone, and the rotation of her ankle in those shoes called to him in a very real way, which Jack found both enthralling and irritating: no one needed to look that good on the telephone and shoes shouldn’t have anything in common with a Siren.

And third, and perhaps most important, they were, at this very moment, proving bloody impossible to remove.

Propped up on her elbows, an amused smile on her face, Phryne watched him work.

“Do you need a hand, Jack?” 

“No thank you, Miss Fisher, I’ve got it.”

“It’s just… there’s a buckle.”

“I can see that.”

“There’s no trick to it. Just, you know, in and out… a concept I was rather hoping you were familiar with, if we’re being honest.”

Jack stopped trying to remove her shoe - a deep red number with a heel as high as his blood pressure right now - and looked up at Phryne with the most annoyed expression he could muster given his current state of dishevelment and the fact that her knickers were somewhere in the general direction of behind him.

“Would you rather do it yourself, Miss Fisher?”

“Jaaaaack.” Phryne tilted her head to the side and grinned. “I hope that’s not your attitude all night.”

Jack huffed and put down her foot, flinging himself backwards on the bed dramatically. “If you’re trying to make me _less_ nervous, Miss Fisher, you’re doing an absolutely phenomenal job of it.”

Phryne shifted and lowered herself to the bed as well so they were side by side, high heels and worn oxfords dangling off the side in tandem.

She turned her head and looked at him. “I’m sorry, I’m only teasing, Jack. You know, the buckles on these are uncommonly small.” She reached over and took his hand, pulling it towards her and tracing his fingers with her own. “And I’m not really surprised you’re having trouble; you do have uncommonly large hands after all.” She kissed each digit one by one and Jack felt his tension melt away.

“The better to pinch my nose in exasperation with, my dear.”

Phryne laughed and then Jack laughed and then everything was… fine. Easy. Wonderful. Perfectly imperfect, just like the woman he loved.

Why had he ever been nervous?

With a quick kiss of his own to her palm, Jack released her hand and slid down the bed to kneel on the floor. With one uncommonly long finger he stroked the band of the shoe. Two thin strips of leather in deep, deep red.

Why had he ever tried to remove them?

“You know, Miss Fisher, I think I’ve figured out the problem.”

Watching him caress her ankle, Phryne tongued her canine and raised an eyebrow. “And what’s that, Jack?”

“I had it in the wrong position.” Jack slid his hand around to the back of her ankle and raised her foot above his shoulder.

Phryne grinned, her eyes as soft as her tone was wicked. “You know what, Jack? I do believe you did.”

Jack nodded solemnly even as he continued to move towards her.

\---------------------

The next morning, Jack had a glow about him and a new, not insignificant bruise on his back.

T-strap heels were a goddamn menace.

***

_aurora_australis_


	4. Present

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _ Jack's hands _, I MEAN....need I say more???  
And hey look! I managed to keep the rating down, even with Jack's hands in mind! Maybe this influence thing works both ways... ;)

***

***

_LeChatNoir1918_


	5. Thermodynamics

If Jack were a betting man - and he wasn’t, there were laws against that - he would wager that when most people thought of The Honorable Miss Phryne Fisher, they didn’t automatically think of the word “hug.”

Jack was not most people.

Of course, Phryne was obviously a very tactile person, so from the beginning the association had made a certain amount of sense. But as he got to know her better, started receiving some of those hugs himself, he realized it was more than that. Phryne’s hugs were… transformative. Altering. Thermodynamic. 

When Phryne hugged you face to face, her hold was tight. She would tuck her chin into your shoulder and clasp you firmly with both hands. If it was a happy hug, she would beam with joy; if it was a comforting hug she would hold you that much closer. 

Jack had seen her hug many people this way, mostly her female friends and relations. Jane. Dot. Mac. Even Mrs. Stanley, when the stars aligned and enough port had been consumed.

When Phryne hugged you from behind, her grasp was generally looser, more playful. She would place her arms around the waist, or diagonally across the chest like a sash. Sometimes her hands wandered south and Jack would be forced to stop them (unless he didn’t). 

Jack had never seen her hug anyone else this way. He had a hope, quiet and ridiculous, that those hugs were just for him. Just for them. What the scientist in Jack would call their very own state of thermodynamic equilibrium.

And there lay the complication.

The first law of thermodynamics states that energy can neither be created nor destroyed; energy can only be transferred or changed from one form to another.

The first law of Phryne Fisher states that if she _can_ help, she _will_. Need a job? You’ve got one. Need a mystery solved? Case closed. Need a friendly shoulder, for camaraderie or consolation? Here, have a hug. Phryne will literally hold you close enough to transfer some of her joy, her strength, her love to you.

Thermodynamics.

But if these things - energy, joy, strength, love - could neither be created nor destroyed, then, Jack, reasoned, each hug left Phryne a little more drained, a little more depleted. 

So, one day, Jack decided to give it back. 

And he hugged her. 

As tight as he could, for as long as he could. Used the first law of thermodynamics to give her his joy, his strength, his love.

And it didn’t feel like a loss at all.

Now he hugged her at every opportunity. Visits to the station. Lunches at Wardlow. At night before he fell asleep, and in the morning before he left her side.

Jack knew they would never marry, and he was fine with that. But he’d made his own vows long ago, and one of them was that he would never, as long as he lived, take more from her than he gave back.

And every time that he held her he knew that he wouldn’t. Couldn't.

There were laws against that.

***

_aurora_australis_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I _almost_ wrote about what was in the present, but that hug just called to me. 😍
> 
> No science was harmed in the making of this ficlet... I hope. 😂


	6. Energy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It took me a while to recover from that _ amazing _ drabble, I have to say.
> 
> Take Jack's love and the transference of energy (to stick with the science) and you get... this?  
It was somewhat of an experiment... (I will happily go back to Phrack fluff in the next one) :D

***

***

_LeChatNoir1918_


	7. Competition

It wasn’t a competition of course, not really. A competition implied there would be a loser, and Phryne had every intention of making sure they both won tonight. So no, it wasn’t a competition.

But if it were…

Phryne smiled as she sauntered up her front walk, the beads on her castleton green dress making soft clicking noises as she did, the fur stole draped across her shoulders sliding down just a touch to reveal the Columbian emeralds on full display.

Really, she’d outdone herself tonight.

She smiled a little wider as she realized he was _finally_ about to see how much. 

It was just too bad that he’d had to wait until now. But even Phryne Fisher didn’t control _everything_ and scheduling conflicts did occur. Still, it was a pity two such important events had been planned for the same evening, because besides making her anticipated sartorial splash, she really had been looking forward to seeing Jack’s cousin perform in the symphony tonight. But one didn’t turn down an invitation to the Women’s Hospital Gala. Or, rather, one didn’t turn down Prudence Stanley’s invitation to the Women’s Hospital Gala, or one risked ending up in said hospital oneself. So Phryne and Jack had agreed to meet up afterwards instead, end their respective evenings apart with a little reward together.

Speaking of rewards… walking up the steps, Phryne popped the button on her skirt, the one that caused the slit on the side to rise another inch and a half up her thigh. A shame to hide such a nice detail, but if she’d done that at the Gala, she’d likely have sent Aunt Prudence to the Women’s Hospital as a patient instead of a patron. And really, Mac would never have forgiven her for that.

As she approached Wardlow’s front door, Phryne saw a dim light coming from the parlour and unconsciously licked her lips. She really was looking forward to seeing Jack dressed to the nines. The man looked positively delicious when he put on a bow tie and tails. But she also knew what _she_ looked like tonight. Knew the sight of her, primped and put together and perfect, would make his pupils blow wide and his adam’s apple bob in just that way.

She slipped in the entrance to her home, silently locking it behind her. As she turned, she caught a glimpse of herself in the hall mirror. Oh yes, she looked sharp tonight. Phryne took a deep breath, adjusted her fascinator - the one Jack called seduction in silver - and smoothed down her hair one more time. A full evening of playing socialite and she still looked flawless. 

It wasn’t a competition of course, but if it were…

Phryne smiled, only slightly predatorily, opened the parlour door and just… stopped.

He was sat at the piano, tinkling out a Cole Porter number - one of the less known ones, she registered vaguely - a half drunk whisky on the seat beside him. His bow tie was undone and that lock of hair no substance on earth could tame for long had curled across his forehead. The dim light from the single lit lamp cast shadows across his face and highlighted his cheekbones and lips. He looked a little tired, but also comfortable. At ease. Happy.

Well fuck.

It wasn’t a competition… but if it was, she’d just brought a knife to a gunfight.

She coughed lightly and Jack looked up from the keys. He smiled at her - his eyes raking over her, his adam’s apple bobbing in just that way - and scooted over on the seat to make room.

Phryne smiled back, stepped through the parlour door and then closed it behind her. She turned back and slowly sauntered towards him, shrugging the fur off completely as she went.

Well…. she’d always been gracious in defeat.

***

_aurora_australis_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was easily the most difficult choice so far! I had a whole other idea based around Phryne's expression (😭) but in the end I had to go with my first instinct.
> 
> LeChatty, you are NOT making this easy on me. 😂


	8. Mirror

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My brain was just throwing ideas at me left and right after aurora_australis' drabble. And she says _ I'm _ the one making it hard on _ her _, I mean.. you've read the drabbles, right??  
So anyway, this ended up being a mix of almost everything and spiraled a bit out of control I'll admit. Just too many options to choose from!! (I was very sad to pass up on Jack in fancy dress with buttons undone ;))

***

***

_LeChatNoir1918_


	9. Fastidious

Jack Robinson was fastidious. A place for everything and everything in its place. This was true of his office, his home, his appearance. It was a habit he’d mostly developed early in life, but which had been honed to a fine point in the army. 

Phryne was… less so. It rarely bothered either of them, though. Opposites attract and all that. 

But it was also why, when Phryne swanned into Jack’s office on this particular day, she noticed the two small wrapped packages on his desk immediately. 

Because they were in her spot.

The spot he _usually_ kept clear for her.

Rude.

“Hello, Jack!” she trilled, shoving the usurpers to the side and reclaiming her rightful place. He looked up, amused, from the report he had been reading to greet her.

“Ah, Miss Fisher returns; hail the conquering hero. How was Sorrento?”

“Fine. Jewelry recovered, guilty parties arrested, Aunt P placated.” She waved her hand in the air, underscoring her words. “Hardly worth hailing my return, though, darling; I was only gone for three days, and I even stayed at yours the night before. Not nearly enough time to miss me,” she concluded with a dramatic sigh. 

“Well, you were asleep when I left that morning. And I always have time to miss you.”

She smiled, dropping both the pretense and - after a glance to be sure she’d closed the door - a kiss to his lips. 

“I missed you too,” she confessed, then straightened up, smoothing down her hair as she did. “So, how did you get on while I was away? And how’s your sister? I was so sorry to miss the first half of her visit, but you know Aunt P… time might wait for no man, but it stops on a shilling for her.”

“Mmmmm,” he agreed, keeping, as usual, his opinions of Prudence Stanley mostly to himself. 

“So your sister,” Phryne continued, following up on her original question. “Good visit so far?”

“Yes, about that. I told you, I believe, that Joanne was bringing Bobby with her this time?”

“Oh, yes, that’s right. He’s… six?”

“Seven.”

“Ah.” Phryne said, feigning an understanding of the difference. “Is he having fun?”

“He is. He was especially excited the first day.”

“Oh? Why is that?”

“Well, I was just heading out on an emergency call when they arrived at the station, so instead of accompanying them back to the house, I gave Joanne my keys so she could get them both settled immediately.”

Phryne nodded, her attention quickly shifting away from small children and towards the report he’d been reading when she arrived - it did say “murder” after all, and she couldn’t imagine the boy had done anything all that interesting in three days.

Jack, however, kept his attention firmly on her. “And while Joanne was setting them up in the guest room, Bobby decided to go and explore the rest of the house.” 

“Uh huh… ” Phryne was blatantly reading the report now, her brow furrowed as she looked over the witness statements. 

“Including, as it turns out, my bedroom. Quick question, Miss Fisher - did you have a nice lie in before you left?”

That got her attention. Phryne looked up, confused. 

“I did, thank you for asking.”

“And, I take it, you didn’t have time to pick up after yourself before you left?”

“I… I don’t remember. Why do you ask?”

He didn’t answer, just leaned forward on his desk, picking up one of the packages, absently rubbing the wrapping with his thumb. “Second question - guess what Bobby found in said bedroom?”

She eyed the package suspiciously. 

“What?” she finally asked, with just a modicum of trepidation.

He tossed the package at her. “A shiny cape.”

“A shiny… ” She opened the wrapping to find her steel grey camisole. 

The one she’d apparently left hanging on his bedpost that morning. 

Phryne looked up quickly.

“Oh no.”

“Oh yes.”

Phryne rolled her lips, trying desperately not to laugh. 

“I don’t suppose he also found my… ”

The second package landed in Phryne's lap. 

“The matching crown?” Jack asked. “Funnily enough, he _did_.”

With hands shaking slightly from silent laughter she opened the package, finding, as she suspected she would, the brassiere that attached to her camisole.

Jack leaned forward to lift it with one finger, examine it closely and place it gently back in her hands. “According to Joanne, Bobby ran back into the guest room, pleased as punch, wearing half your lingerie and proclaiming himself King Arthur of Camelot.”

Phryne nodded, tears welling up in her eyes as she valiantly tried to keep a straight face. 

It really was a noble effort, but, eventually, she lost. 

Laughter burst forth from deep within as Phryne pictured the image the boy must have made, a second wave quickly following the first as she then imagined Jack’s face when his sister told him the story.

For his part, Jack just leaned back in his chair, hands folded across his stomach, one eyebrow arched, waiting for her to finish. 

It took a while. 

When she _finally _managed to calm herself, Phryne took a deep breath and wiped the tears from her eyes. “Oh I’m sorry, Jack, but that is just too funny. Was Joanne a good sport about it?”

“She was,” he confirmed.

Of course she was, she was Jack’s sister. 

“She’s also been teasing me mercilessly about it for three days,” he added.

Of course she had, she was Jack’s sister. 

“Oh Jack, I _am_ sorry.” She batted her eyelashes at him and leaned forward to take his hand. “Is there anything I can do to make it up to you? Anything at all?”

“As a matter of fact there is,” he responded, voice low and full of promise. 

“Yes… ?”

“On Saturday,” he moved in close to whisper in her ear, “you’re going to come over to my house,” his hand found her knee, “and you’re going to babysit Bobby all afternoon, so I can take Joanne to a play.”

Phryne bolted upright. “I’m going to _what?”_

Jack cocked his head to the side and stood, straightening his jacket as he did.

“Look on the bright side, Miss Fisher - you’re already well prepared to play Knights of the Round Table.”

Then he turned to make his way to the door, leaving her gaping behind him and hiding his own wide grin in the process. 

Jack Robinson was fastidious. Everything, and everyone, in its place. 

Eventually.

***

_aurora_australis _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, hey brain, what’s up? Wasn’t that image LeChatty drew STUNNING? What do you think, should we write something deep and emotional about reflections? Wax poetic about why different people saw the same image as either dressing or undressing? Ooooh, maybe a commentary on how LC was able to make those earrings just gloooooow? Or, what about just an ode to that _dress_? 
> 
> Oh, we’re... we're going this way instead? Cool. Cool. Cool cool cool cool.
> 
> ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


	10. Babysitter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a challenge but I HAD TO DO IT, OKAY? I HAD TO. It was too good to pass up. (I love you but you’re making this so difficult aurora_australis 😘)  
Maybe Jack's sister has another child that's a bit younger than 7. (indulge me)

***

***

_LeChatNoir1918_


	11. Useful

There was a saying Jack had learned, first as a cadet and then later in the army: plausible deniability. 

Plausible deniability basically referred to the ability of an individual to deny knowing about something because there was no proof to the contrary, and in Jack’s experience it was basically only ever used by the higher ups to cover their arses in case something went wrong.

Jack had no use for it as a young man, when plausible deniability only ever came up right before he and his mates were hung out to dry. And he had no use for it once he made it to a position of leadership, because if he couldn’t stand behind a decision, it wasn’t one he should have made in the first place.

But over the last three years, Jack had begun to see the value in plausible deniability.

There were advantages to being able to sit in a meeting with the Chief Commissioner and tell him, truthfully, that he had had no foreknowledge of Miss Fisher’s plans, schemes, misdemeanours.

And he found, as he worked more and more with her, that it also gave him a bit more leeway in his professional proceedings.

Hand over a photographer’s plate… plausible deniability.

Don’t ask questions about a plundered crime scene… plausible deniability. 

Return evidential letters to a lady detective’s lady’s companion… plausible deniability.

Designate a new special constable of the Victoria Police Force...

Plausible deniability. 

And one of his most cherished memories.

So, yes, it turned out plausible deniability could be useful professionally. And, Jack considered as he took in the scene before him, personally as well.

He blinked, slowly, then did three things.

First, he put his index finger to her uncharacteristically mussed lips, stopping any explanation before she could offer it.

Next, he took the tumbler out of her hand and finished half the contents in one gulp.

And, finally, he made his way to the clothesline and started unpinning his grinning nephew, one peg at a time.

What he _didn’t _do was ask questions.

He didn’t ask the boy how, why or who. 

He didn’t ask the boy anything.

Plausible deniability. 

Jack had had no use for it as a young man, and, if such a conversation were possible, he honestly didn’t know what explanation he could offer his younger self about his newfound appreciation for the practice. 

But, Jack thought as he released another peg, at least this time he wasn’t the one hung out to dry.

***

_aurora_australis _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit more "yes!" than "and" for this one, but COME ON, did you see how perfect Chapter 10 was??? I couldn't not. Sorry not sorry LeChatty, but this is really your own fault. 😂 And hopefully there's enough "and" in here for you to work with nonetheless. 😘


	12. Suspicion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As much as I wanted to continue it, I'm reluctantly ending the Bobby saga of the last three chapters... so there can keep being an "and" in future chapters :D  
With enough imagination this drawing relates to aurora_australis' amazing drabble...

***

***

_LeChatNoir1918_


	13. Seen

Growing up the middle of five siblings, he was more likely to be addressed as “hey sprog” than by his actual name.

“Hey sprog, mum wants you.”

“Hey sprog, supper’s ready.”

“Hey sprog, let’s go!”

He got used to it pretty quickly, and at least it was nicer than some of the other things his brothers and sisters called each other.

At the Academy, he was only ever addressed as “cadet.”

“Cadet, pick up the pace!”

“Cadet, shine those shoes!”

“Cadet, move along!”

He asked his commanding officer once why none of the instructors used his full name.

“What’s the point? You boys come and go. Honestly, I don’t even see faces anymore - you’re basically interchangeable.”

The next week, when he got perfect marks on an exam, he thought about disagreeing with his CO, but he doubted the older man would even remember their conversation.

After the Academy, he got assigned to Russell Street, which mostly meant he was sent out to assist other stations, shuffled around between other officers who only addressed him as “Constable.”

“Constable, raid that club.”

“Constable, canvass this area.”

“Constable, secure that crime scene.”

He always did his best, though, interchangeable or not.

One day, at one of those crime scenes, he was overseeing an eyewitness to a public brawl where a man had died. The witness was a little boy, nine years old and gaunt as hell. 

Too bloody young to have seen that and too bloody young to be hungry. 

And while the nameless constable couldn’t do anything about the first bit, he could help with the second.

Glancing around to make sure no one was watching, he took a biscuit out of his pocket, the one his mother had given him that morning, and, smiling, handed it to the little boy.

The little boy cautiously smiled back before wandering a few feet away to enjoy his treat in private. 

“Be careful, Constable, you keep giving away your stash and you’ll get a reputation as a soft touch.”

The constable whirled around, flailing slightly as he did, to see the Inspector on the scene regarding him with an amused expression.

“Uh, sorry, sir, I — ”

“What’s your name, Constable?”

“Uh, my officer number is 1284, sir.”

The Inspector raised his eyebrows. 

“I can read your number, Constable, it’s literally written across your forehead.”

“Oh. Yes. Uh — ” 

“Your _name_, son, what’s your name?” 

“Uh, Collins, sir. Constable Hugh Collins.”

“Well Constable Hugh Collins…” The man regarded him carefully and Hugh shifted, slightly uncomfortable with the attention. “How would you like a more permanent transfer?”

“Sir?”

“Unless you’re happy doing the Russell Street do-si-do?”

“No, sir. I mean yes, sir! I mean... sir?”

The Inspector cocked his head to the side and pushed off the wall he’d been learning against.

“I’ve seen you at a number of these crime scenes, and I’ve been watching you, Collins. You've got a good head and more important you’ve got a good heart. You could be an excellent officer someday. And you’re being wasted at Russell Street.” The Inspector shrugged. “City South needs a new constable - you interested?”

Hugh gaped, then grinned. “Yes, sir! Inspector… ?”

“Robinson. But you can keep calling me ‘sir.’” His lips turned down in a strange sort of amalgamated expression Hugh didn’t quite understand. “Everyone else does.”

Then the Inspector started walking over towards the witness, ready to interview him at last. Halfway there he stopped and turned around.

“Collins, you coming?”

“Yes, sir!”

Hugh grabbed his pencil and notebook and got to work.

***

_aurora_australis _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Sprog" means child or kid, and is awfully fun to say. 😉
> 
> This one is _very_ "and", but it was either this or 1,000 words about how beautiful Phryne's face is, so... 
> 
> ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> 😂


	14. Lean

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off, sorry for keeping you waiting for so long! I _ really_ liked the perspective we got on Hugh in aurora_australis' last drabble and I did attempt to draw Hugh but just... let's not talk about that attempt. After that failure I went back to what I know, meaning Phrack.  
I did try different eye positions for Jack but either way he just ended up looking like he's straight up ogling Phryne's butt so eventually I figured I'd stop fighting it. Do with this drawing what you will, lol. (and I'm sorry, aurora)

***

***

_LeChatNoir1918_


	15. Leap

She always rushed in. _Always_. Bloody stubborn woman NEVER held back. 

It didn’t matter if what awaited her was a well-armed criminal, a raging fire, an escaped circus lion or a combination of the three - she’d rush in with her golden gun, a bucket of water and a rare steak and figure out the rest on the way.

He would never call her a fool - because she wasn’t one and also he had too much self-preservation - but she did have a habit of rushing in where angels and constables often feared to tread.

At first he thought she was just impetuous; damn the torpedoes and full speed ahead. Full speed in general, really, and damn the consequences while we’re at it. 

Then, he thought it was arrogance, an (over)abundance of (over)confidence in her own skills no matter what the obstacle, no matter what the cost.

But, as he got to know her better, he soon discovered that it wasn’t either of those things. 

It was trust.

Trust in her abilities. Trust in her instincts. Trust in her mind and her heart and herself. 

As a man prone to bouts of disquiet, moments of doubt, Phryne trusted herself in a way that Jack envied at times. It’s not that he thought himself incapable or unprepared, it’s that history had shown him that sometimes being capable and prepared wasn’t enough.

Phryne had been shown that same truth, but she still chose to believe in herself instead of unknowns, trust that when she rushed in, it would be worth it. 

And, eventually, trust that he would always be right behind her when she did.

So, when Phryne made a decision, she was all in.

Which was how - Jack would later realize - just over a week after his arrival in London, he found himself in an unfamiliar hotel room when he was supposed to be at the theatre.

“Phryne?” 

The note amending their plans had said to pick her up here, but when he had arrived the door had been unlocked with no Phryne in sight. So now Jack stood awkwardly in the sitting room of the enormous suite, shifting his weight back and forth from one foot to the other as he looked around for his date.

“Jack!” Her head popped out from around the door of what he assumed was her bedroom. “Have a seat, I’ll just be a moment.”

He nodded at her retreating smile, took off his top hat and sat down on the chaise.

“Do you want a drink?” she called from the other room.

Jack checked his wristwatch; if they left right now they’d only be a few minutes late. 

“No thank you, Miss Fisher. We should really — ”

Suddenly she was before him in a silk robe and stockinged feet.

“I’m ready,” she told him.

He swallowed. Hard.

“Miss Fisher, unless the St. James has dramatically altered their dress code of late, I don’t believe you are.”

She smiled, simultaneously coy and kind. “I’m afraid I can’t speak to their dress code these days, but it doesn’t really matter; I’m not going to the theatre tonight.”

“You’re not?”

“No.”

“Am I?” he asked.

“Well, that’s up to you, Jack.”

Jack nodded, slowly, then shifted his gaze to the drinks cart.

“I think I’ll take that drink now,” he told her.

Phryne laughed lightly and walked over to the cart. She poured them both a whisky and returned to the chaise to sit next to him.

Jack took a long sip, then spoke.

“I… I suspect I know what this is about,” he told her.

“Do you?” she asked, a small smile on her unpainted lips.

“I’ve been here a week.”

“You have.”

“And we haven’t… yet.”

“No, we haven’t yet.”

“And you would prefer we… had.”

“Actually,” she said, taking a sip of her own drink, “I’d simply prefer to know why.”

“Why?”

“Mmmm,” she confirmed. “I’d never want to rush you into anything you weren’t ready for, Jack. Truly. And I can wait for as long as you need. But I do think I deserve to know what’s changed.”

“Who says anything has changed?” he asked, his collar suddenly feeling tighter than it had a few minutes before.

“Jaaack.” Her returning look was so knowing it should have been lecturing at Oxford. “There was enough heat in that kiss at the airfield to start a brush fire. But now you’re holding back for some reason. And I just want to know why.”

“I’m not holding back,” he defended, shifting slightly in his seat as he did. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

“This isn’t an interrogation, darling, you can stand down. I just… you’ve seemed so uneasy this past week.” She took another sip of her whisky, then studied the glass in her hand. “It was a long boat ride, Jack. A lot of time to think. I suppose I just want to make sure you’re not having second thoughts.”

“I’m not,” he insisted, more forcefully than he meant to, then repeated himself in a softer tone. “I’m not. I’m just…” He sighed. “It’s not that I’m not ready, and it’s not that I don’t want to take the next step. I _do_. Very much. But this is… this is important, Phryne. Too important to rush into without considering all the variables. I’m just being rational.”

“Oh, well if you want rational I can show you my notebook full of the relative pros and cons of our entering into a relationship.”

“Really?”

“No, you dolt, of course not. Love isn’t rational and a relationship isn’t a formula.”

He sighed again. “Thank you for that helpful analysis.” He took another sip of his whisky, watched her mirror the action. “I suppose you know what it is then?”

She shrugged, but not casually. “Well I’m hardly an expert, but I think… I think it’s trust.”

“I do trust you,” he assured her.

“Yes, but you don’t trust this. You don’t trust _us_.”

“I don’t trust _me_,” he amended. “I wish… I’m not like you, Phryne. I can’t just believe something into working out. And I want…” He trailed off, looked down at the now empty glass in his hand.

“What, Jack?” she asked softly. “What do you want?”

He closed his eyes. “I want this to work out so very much.”

Eyes still shut, he felt her take his free hand in her own. When he opened them again, she was looking at him with compassion, but not pity. That was something he supposed.

“How do you do it?” he asked. “How do you just rush in?”

She shot him an amused look. “Usually by ignoring you. Sometimes Hugh. Occasionally Dot. Mac doesn’t even bother anymore.”

“Phryne — ”

“I don’t know, Jack, I just do. It’s a leap of faith. I see a situation and… well if the alternative is sitting by passively, I would much rather be proactive.”

“Jump in feet first and figure out the rest on the way, you mean.”

“Well… there’s a reason it’s called a _leap_, Jack.”

“So that’s your secret? Close your eyes and hope for the best?”

“I don’t have a secret. I have faith in myself and I have faith in my choices. And I right now, today, I choose you, Jack. I choose you.” She twinned their fingers together and moved a little closer to him. “What do you choose?”

Jack looked into her eyes, but they held no answers. No certainties. No guarantees that if he was just cautious enough, careful enough, that this time the universe would be kind. 

What they did hold was desire. And patience. And love.

So much love.

The universe might be cruel, but she never was. He could trust that. And maybe that would be enough this time. There were no guarantees, of course, but he could hope. He could choose.

Jack closed his own eyes, pulled her close, and leaped.

When he finally broke the kiss, her eyes were still closed but her expression was open. They were both ready it seemed. Finally.

After a moment, Phryne slowly opened them again and looked up at him through lowered lashes. She drained the last of her whisky, glanced in the direction of the bedroom, and grinned.

“Looks like neither one of us is going to the theatre tonight, Jack, though I think you’ll still like the show.”

Then she stood up, put down her empty glass and walked back to the other room, her robe hitting the floor just as she disappeared from sight.

She always rushed in. Always. Never held back. Bloody stubborn impossible wonderful woman.

Jack watched her go and shook his head. She’d asked him once to give her a good head start and at the time he’d agreed, but really, when had he ever had a choice? She was always a step ahead of him and when it came right down to it, he couldn’t even say he minded. He would always be right behind her when she wanted him. When she needed him. They could both trust in that too.

And he always did enjoy the view.

Grinning, Jack put down his own glass and rose to follow her once more. 

***

aurora_australis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like the record to note I showed great restraint in not naming this chapter any number of inappropriate options based on LeChatty’s too perfect artwork in Chapter 14. GREAT RESTRAINT! 😂


	16. Theatre

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After I had recovered from that _ amazing _ drabble, this... took a while, but I enjoyed the challenge (and I _ really _ like how it turned out). 
> 
> The handholding is a gift for aurora_australis, the dress was a gift to myself. :D  
(is this possibly part of my secret plan to get aurora_australis to eventually write about a garment? Who knows ;))  
All jokes aside, hope you enjoy this as much as I had fun drawing it!

***

***

_LeChatNoir1918_


	17. Growth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok I lied, the series isn't over. But LeChatty really did kill me with that artwork (and cheated with the hand-holding 😛). Just... amazing. Do yourself a favor and click back. I'll wait. 
> 
> ...
> 
> See? Perfect. ❤️ 
> 
> The following is what I managed once I was able to _finally_ resuscitate myself.

Jack woke slowly, the sounds of dawn drawing him gently from sleep. Reluctantly, he opened his eyes, saw the low, grey light filtering in from behind the curtains, further announcing the early hour. 

As the information permeated his still-waking mind, he groaned softly; it was his day off, but that didn’t mean he could sleep in. For one thing, he had work to do in the garden. The roses needed deadheading and the lemon tree needed attention and ideally he should try to get it all done before the day got toohot. Jack shifted minutely, trying to will himself to rise without waking his companion - she didn’t share his dedication to cultivation before noon.

Thinking about her, he smiled and looked down. Nestled across his chest, loosely holding one of his hands in her own, Phryne was, surprisingly, awake.

“Good morning,” he said softly, dipping down to kiss the top of her head.

“Good morning,” she replied, tilting her head up to look at him and smile. Even after all this time, the sight still took his breath away. But this morning the smile seemed strangely… tense.

Her head fell down to rest on his chest once more and her expression disappeared from view. “You’re up early,” he noted, then felt her nod against his ribs.

“I woke up a while ago and couldn’t fall back asleep,” she said, beginning to stroke the back of his hand with her thumb.

Jack frowned. That was... unusual. “Everything all right?” he asked. She nodded again. 

“Bad dream,” she said simply, her thumb never stopping its rhythm. 

Ah. That would explain the tension. Jack held her a little tighter, but didn’t inquire further; if she wanted to say more, she would, but until then he would leave it. They didn’t hide their pasts, from themselves or each other, but neither would they ever ask the other to share before they were ready. 

Better, for the moment, to focus on the future. 

Jack scooted a bit to his side so he could see her face better. Then he gently turned the small hand holding his over and pulled it towards him so he could have a closer look.

“What are you doing?” she asked, curious as always.

“Seeing if there’s more than croquet in there,” he told her and she laughed softly.

“In this light, Jack? Are you sure you don’t need your glasses?” she teased.

He shot her a thoroughly unamused look; he did need them actually, but he wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of confirming that. Instead he ignored the question and focused his gaze once more on her hand.

“I see… a morning kip. Followed by breakfast…” he squinted and looked closer, “sorry, _brunch_ in bed.” He rotated her hand slightly, turning it to see more of the fine lines that traversed her palm. 

“After that I see you enthusiastically diving into a banned book I confiscated yesterday — ”

“You don’t want to look at it first, darling?”

“I’ve already read that one.”

She laughed again and nodded sagely.

He continued his predictions. “Then a walk along the foreshore, followed by a scandalously delicious dinner courtesy of Mr Butler.”

“And after that?” she asked, also looking down at her hand now.

“After that, a very handsome man who loves you very much is going to _very_ successfully seduce you.” 

Phryne looked up at him with amused eyes. “Awfully confident, aren’t you?” 

He shrugged, a small smirk playing at the corners of his lips. “The heart line never lies.”

She smiled again, less tense now, and his soul was happier for it.

“So that’s my future, is it?”

“Your very near future at any rate,” Jack confirmed. “I can check back again tomorrow, see what else may have popped up in the interim.”

“Sounds like I have a busy day ahead of me,” she told him, then sighed dramatically. “I should probably go back to sleep for a bit.”

“Yes, I think you’d better had.”

Phryne pulled their still joined hands back to her lips and kissed his palm. “My Jack,” she whispered. “Still a heart as deep as the Pacific. Not so careful anymore, though. I’m glad.”

“Me too,” he agreed. He leaned down to kiss her forehead again as she arranged herself more comfortably on his chest. “Though, unfortunately, _my_ future isn’t in bed. I should get up now, deal with the garden before the sun gets too high.”

She didn’t answer, just snuggled in closer. 

“Phryne?”

“Yes?”

“Can I have my hand back now?”

“No thank you, I’m quite comfortable.”

He rolled his eyes, but made no immediate move to extract himself. Instead, he stared up at the ceiling in the still dim light. Remembered that careful man who denied his passions. That man had had no idea about what was to come. No idea that the seeds of friendship and respect and intimacy and love they were planting all those years ago would bloom into this.

He still didn’t believe you could predict what the future would hold… but god, did he believe you could pursue it.

He looked down at the top of her head. Saw her stillness, heard her even breathing, felt her hand resting loose in his own. 

She had fallen back to sleep. 

Jack closed his eyes and smiled, content, for the present, to stay where he was.

The garden could wait.

***

aurora_australis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Per your request, LeChatty, I tried, really I did, to write about the dress. But all I could manage was a lot of key smashing and some incoherent noises and an enthusiastic "yes!", and in the end all I could do was "and" how your artwork made me feel and hope it would be satisfactory nonetheless. ❤️


	18. Distraction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right, so while Aurora manages to write these amazing scenes with deeper meaning, my brain then just latches onto one word of her beautifully written drabbles and runs with it (glasses in this case). Sadly I can't just keep drawing Phrack holding hands or we'd run out of "and's" rather quickly.  
BUT, I do hope you enjoy this nevertheless, this turned into kind of a different style than my usual but I can’t say I dislike it. :D

***

***

_LeChatNoir1918_


	19. Timeless

It was a perfectly ordinary watch.

And he wore it in a perfectly ordinary way. Left wrist. Face up. Clasped tight.

No reason in the world to take note of it.

But she did.

She had. 

She definitely had.

She’d noticed it for the first time when he appeared on a train outside Ballarat, out of nowhere and chastising Collins for allowing a civilian into the case.

(She thought he’d made good time.)

It had caught her attention again resting on a café table beside a plate of snails. Focusing on the numbers, she’d spotted that the time was wrong, an oversight which seemed so unlike him.

(It was too early.)

But they reset.

And time continued to pass.

And they continued orbiting each other.

And she kept noticing.

His watch face had reflected the candlelight as they tried to contact the other side, and the moonlight as he hung off a pier by her side, and the firelight in her parlour as he left her side. 

Afterwards, she had reflected on their partnership and wondered if he would ever return.

(Time would tell.)

And then later, again in her parlour, he’d called them a waltz and promised to stay in step and she’d idly wondered if the rhythm of his watch could keep time.

(Not perfect, perhaps, but slow and close and - she was realizing - pretty damn near.)

And then… then it was a blur of talking pictures and tight-lipped towns, fathers-in-law and fathers who skirted the law, and time seemed to move at a dizzying pace until suddenly it slowed, stalled, wound down to just the tick, tick, tick of his watch as she’d used it to take his pulse and curse the bloody nerve tonic and hope that this was just a delay.

(Hope it was not too late.)

It wasn’t.

And so she had caught a glimpse of it again as he pulled her close for a kiss on an airfield, his grip firm but gentle, the smooth band of the watch contrasting the tendons straining in his hand.

Full of contradictions.

Like the man himself.

Like saying ‘hello’just as she flew away and knowing that was as it should be.

(They had time.)

And now…

Now she took note of it once more, that perfectly ordinary watch, and smiled.

She had never seen it off him before.

It looked good on her nightstand.

A rustling noise from behind caught her attention, but she didn’t look away.

“What are you doing?” he asked, snaking a hand over her waist and pulling her flush to his chest.

“What do you mean?”

“You’re staring at my watch,” he told her.

“It’s a very nice watch,” she replied.

He snorted.

“It’s just a watch, Phryne. Functional, but hardly fashionable.”

Phryne shook her head. “It’s special.”

“It’s ordinary,” he insisted, losing interest in the timepiece and moving down to kiss her neck.

She could tell him he was wrong, that it wasn’t ordinary at all.

Just like the man himself.

Just like them.

Timeless.

She could tell him all that, but, frankly, she had other things she’d rather be doing right now.

And he was finally here to do them with her.

She smiled wider and turned around.

(About damn time.)

***

_aurora_australis_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of a writing experiment, this chapter. I made the _enormous_ sacrifice of looking at Chapter 18 _a lot_, but every time the watch kept calling to me and then this style emerged and then…
> 
> Anyway, I could have written, no joke, a dozen different stories off of that image. LeChatty, if you ever want to use that blouse or that tie again, I’m not gonna be mad. 😂


	20. Future

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize in advance.

***

***

_LeChatNoir1918_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After Aurora's writing experiment my brain wanted to do a drawing experiment and I don't have any other explanation for why I did this. I feel like I have to acknowledge at this point that Phrack aging is one of the main causes of my fandom related anxiety so _ I don't know why I drew this _ and to anyone who also suffers seeing this, I'M SO SORRY. (though, thank goodness I'm not that good at aging people apparently)  
I genuinely feel bad for subjecting you to this, however I _ am _ the evil twin... 
> 
> P.S.: related to the style I hope you'll forgive any inaccuracies... I tried to go with what my research showed me about 50s fashion/styling


	21. Gift

When he was a boy, getting into scrapes of one kind or another every other day, Jack’s mother used to put her hands on her hips, and cluck her tongue and tell him repeatedly, “young man, you are directly responsible for every grey hair I have on my head.”

As a child he hadn’t understood; how could anything _he_ did be responsible for something as personal as _her_ hair colour?

A few months into his acquaintance with Phryne Fisher, he finally understood.

There was one by his ear from a sandbag on a stage, and another towards the back from an ax in a factory, and a whole smattering at his temple from deadly poison ingested willingly.

Every time he caught a glimpse of them in the mirror, he… well “resented” would probably be too strong a word, but he certainly didn’t thank her for them. 

And one day, later in their acquaintance, when they were still waltzing _around_ each other instead of _with_ each other, he had told her as much.

After a particularly harrowing misadventure on her part, and channeling his mother in a way he didn’t care to examine too closely, he gestured with the hand not holding a cocktail and said point blank, “Miss Fisher, you are directly responsible for every grey hair I have on my head.”

In response, she had raised an eyebrow and leveled him with a cool look. “Your body’s unfortunate reaction to a life well-lived, Jack, is neither my responsibility nor my concern.”

There had been no second martini that night.

Luckily, over time, they had both improved on their dance, their movements less and less slow, more and more close, until they were finally, _finally_, in step.

And then… and then they just kept dancing. For days, then months, then a year, then two...

The waltz was a very serious dance indeed.

And, through it all, Jack kept noticing the greys. But he knew better now than to bring them up. Which was why it was so surprising the night she did.

As always, she was direct, if slightly confounding.

“I was wrong,” she said simply, turning over in bed to face him. 

Jack, blood still returning to his brain, was utterly confused. 

“About what?”

She reached out to stroke his now damp locks. “Your greys. They’re still not my responsibility, but I think they might be my concern.”

He raised an eyebrow, inviting her to continue.

“I think,” she began slowly, “Well, I still think they are proof of a life well-lived, but I no longer think that life is mine.”

Jack blinked. “And I think you’re going to need to explain that a bit more.”

She worried at her bottom lip for a moment, clearly trying to put her insight into words.

“If, as you say, your greys started to arrive when I did, then I think there are two reasons for that. The first is that — thanks in large part to my _excellent_ influence — you take more risks now. With your choices, with your liberal-mindedness, with your heart.” She placed a hand over his chest and he was sure she could feel how fast said heart was now beating. “And all that… possibility is bound to be more taxing than always just playing it safe.”

“More rewarding too,” he assured her, placing his own hand over hers.

“Exactly. A life well-lived.”

“And the other reason?”

“Well that would be why they are my concern. I think the other reason is proof that you love someone enough to worry so very... so very _obviously_ about them.” She hesitated, just a moment, before continuing. “And really, when you think about it, aren’t both of those reasons a gift, Jack?”

God, sometimes she took his breath away.

“That’s very wise,” he told her, when he’d finally caught it again.

She laughed. “Well wisdom comes with age… which, now that I think about it, might be the gift that _actually_ brings these on the most.”

Jack thought about soldiers he’d known in the war, young men who had died with full heads of blonde, brown, auburn hair. Who had hardly had the chance to risk, to worry, to love, to live. He thought about men for whom the future would have been a present, and he knew how very right she was.

He nodded, then coughed slightly to release the unexpected lump in his throat.

“And what brought this on?” he finally asked. “This sudden bout of introspection?”

She rolled her eyes, tilted her head to the side, and pushed back some of the hair by her ear, revealing a few silver strands, set off brilliantly against her jet black cap.

“Turns out I love you obviously too, Jack. So thank you…” She made a face, somewhere between fond and annoyed and tinged with a heavy dose of self-deprecation. “For the gift.”

Jack waited approximately 0.03 seconds before kissing her breathless. Given the circumstances, he thought he had showed great restraint.

He pulled back just far enough to speak, their foreheads still touching. “You’re a gift,” he told her.

“Mmmm,” she replied, a small smirk on her lips. “One you’ve thought about returning a few times, I’d wager.”

“Sadly, I believe that receipt was lost years ago. Looks like I’m stuck with you.” Jack shrugged, then used the new leverage that provided to roll her beneath him, causing her to whoop with surprised laughter.

She caught her breath and, still smiling wide, reached up to touch his cheek. “Looks like we’re stuck with each other.”

Jack grinned down at her, then tried to show her, as obviously as he could, how very much he loved her.

Later, washing his face in front of the mirror, Jack caught sight of one or two new greys, peeking out from behind his ear.

A well-lived life, she’d said.

It was a rare thing, Jack recognized, for a person to know they were in the middle of living one, in the middle of living it. But with every new grey hair, every day with her, he did.

A gift indeed.

***

_aurora_australis___

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy happy happy birthday to my partner in crime, LeChatNoir1918. 
> 
> You, my dear, are a gift. ❤️


	22. Stuck

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aurora’s last drabble was SO good, I don't have words and it kind of short-circuited my brain. I really, really, really wanted to draw Phrack dancing but felt that might have just led us in circles because of the similarity to Chapter 20.  
Très sorry for the angst, I didn't intend for them to look _ this _ sad but then I just ran with it. 🙃

***

***

_LeChatNoir1918_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really hope you can draw inspiration from some part of this, Aurora. I threw in the hat (and the white pants for that matter) to brighten things up a bit😂


	23. Complementary

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I had already written most of my next ficlet when I noticed several of the comments from the last chapter were, shall we say, _worried_ about our favorite detective duo. And honestly, I was worried too. At the same time, I happened to realize that today is my two-year ficiversary, which seemed like a sign. 
> 
> So, with LeChatty’s blessing, I broke the rules and now present two separate ficlets “yes, and-ing” Chapter 22. They don’t go together, except they were inspired by the same fabulous artwork.
> 
> Happy holidays if you celebrate any during this time of year, and happy Tuesday if you don’t. ❤️

**Chapter 23: _Flock_**

Birds of a feather flock together. It was something Dot’s mother had said often to her children when they were young. A reminder that similarity begat harmony, while the only thing differences begat was trouble. Catholics, for example, married Catholics. Preferably Catholics from the same neighborhood. From the same block if possible, but _some_ families didn’t have enough children and so not everyone had that opportunity. 

Still. Birds of a feather flock together. And Mrs Williams believed it.

She had even embroidered it onto a pillow, which she’d given Dot when the girl had left home to find respectable employment with the Andrews.

And Dot had believed it too, in that way you do when your family’s opinions are your own by default.

Some things, some _people_,are just supposed to go together. 

And some are not.

A maid suspected of murder, for example, had no business flocking with an honourable lady.

A girl off the streets had no business flocking with an honourable lady.

An exceptionally stern police inspector had no business flocking with an honourable lady.

And yet… and yet they did.

And, for a time, Dot chalked this up to the honourable lady in question. _She_ must be the anomaly. Someone who worked well with everything, like… like universal sewing machine parts. She just happened to be a bird who could flock with anyone. 

Except.

Except a red ragger also had no business flocking with a society matriarch.

A former gang member had no business flocking with an upstanding police officer.

A lady doctor who advocates family planning had no business flocking with a good Catholic wife.

And yet they did. 

Naturally. Happily.

It was an idle thought, one Dot Collins didn’t even realize she was having until she’d had it, as she made room in the closet for her guests’ various hats and coats one Christmas Eve. A sergeant's helmet beside an old-fashioned felt hat. A worn flat cap next to her daughter’s church bonnet. A beloved brown fedora next to a purple cloche covered in flowers.

None of these were the same at all. They were better than the same — they were complementary. And similarity might create harmony, but sometimes differences… sometimes differences created a family.

Dot shoved the embroidered pillow further back into the closet to make room for more coats, and smiled.

Birds should flock with whomever made them happy.

At least, that was what she believed.

**::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::**

**Chapter 23.5: _Unstuck_**

Jack sighed. 

He couldn’t see his watch from this angle, but he knew some time had passed. At least enough for him to cool down and recognize the parts of this that were not her fault. He sighed again, louder this time, but she didn’t respond. That wasn’t terribly surpringing, he’d been the one to stop speaking to her first after all.

“Miss Fisher?”

Still no response.

He swallowed and forged ahead. “Look, I know you’re cross with me, and that’s your prerogative, but I’m not going to apologize. _I’m_ not the reason you’re in this predicament, I’m just the reason I’m in it _with_ you. And it’s only because I happened to see you sneaking in here and heard the scuffle with Miller’s men that you’re not tied up all alone or _worse_, because they were quite willing to just shoot you until they realized they had a policeman to deal with as well, and don’t try to deny it.”

She didn’t.

Well, that was... strange. 

“So really,” he continued, “if anyone should be cross, it’s me.”

Silence.

“And I am. Cross. With you.” He sighed again. “No, that’s not true. I’m cross with myself. I should have known you’d come here tonight; you never actually said you wouldn’t and I know _you_.”

That, at least, should garner a response, even if she was being a petulant little…

“Miss Fisher?”

More silence.

He strained his ears, suddenly panicked — was she injured? Had she hit her head in the melee? No, no he was quite sure she hadn’t. She had been absolutely fine when they’d been tied up. He struggled to turn far enough to see her, to confirm she was unharmed.

“Phryne! Phryne, can you hear me?”

In response this time there was a sort of whining noise, followed by her… well there was no other word for it, followed by her _snuggling_ more into his back.

What the hell? Was she… No, no she couldn’t possibly be. That would be a bridge too far, even for her.

He listened again. There was no mistaking the soft snuffling sound this time. 

She was asleep. 

Great. Bloody. Hell. 

Jack rolled his eyes so far back his head moved, accidentally bumping hers and prompting a noise of irritation from her slumbering form.

“You really are the absolute limit, Miss Fisher, do you know that? Of course you do, you relish in it. Everything is a lark. How foolish of me to think our kidnap and imprisonment might be of some small interest to you.” He huffed. “Honestly, I don’t even know why I came here tonight. I should have known you’d be up to something ill-conceived and dangerous with no regard for others. After all, I _know you_.”

The words when he said them this time had a sneer to them, and he didn’t like the way they felt in his mouth. That wasn’t him. It wasn’t them. Jack shook his head slightly.

“That’s not fair,” he amended quietly. “I’m sorry. I know why you came, I know there’s nothing you won’t do for a friend in need. It’s one of the things I…” He sighed. “And if I’m being really honest, I know why I came here tonight too. It’s because if you’re going to get yourself into trouble, I want to be there. To help. And the reality is I’d rather be tied up with you than free with anyone else.” He gave a wry chuckle. “How’s that for a predicament?” He closed his eyes and leaned back slightly into her.

“I just wish… I wish you would have let me know what you were planning. Let me _help_. I know how capable you are, but I think we’re good together. _Better_ together. We’re… complementary. In work, in friendship, in… well in everything. And I care about you. I care about you so much that sometimes it scares me. Because you pull stunts like this and I have to temper every fantasy I have about us with the notion that one day I might lose you and that is _terrifying_. I really think you might be the death of me, Phryne. Because the truth is… the truth is that right now I’m tied up, in real peril, and I’m not worried about that at all - I’m just glad you’re not alone.”

Outside the window a car horn blared and behind him, Jack felt a sudden jerk, then Phryne’s head moving as she looked around. “What? What’s happened?”

Jack opened his eyes again and nodded towards the high window. “Car,” he explained succinctly. “And welcome back to the land of the living, Miss Fisher. Have a nice kip?”

Phryne yawned and stretched as well as she could in her current state. “Oh, Jack, don’t be like that.”

“Like what? Conscious? Yes, how rude of me.”

“In my defence, Jack, I had a very late night and a very early morning and it’s been a very long day and you’re very comfortable.”

“I attend a fair number of court cases, Miss Fisher, and that’s not actually a defence.”

“And besides,” she continued as though he had not spoken, “you heard them, we have plenty of time.” She brought her voice down an octave in an impression of Mathias Miller. _“We’ll be back in a few hours to take care of you two.”_

Jack huffed. “They’re criminals, Miss Fisher, I would not take their word as bond.”

“Oh it’s fine,” she assured him in her regular voice. “I saw his schedule when I broke into his office — he has a meeting right now down at the docks. Plus,” she continued in a cheerful tone, “you don’t use quite this much rope unless you’re compensating for something. In this case, I suspect that would be the lack of guards.”

“And as we’re still tied up _with_ that rope, that knowledge helps us how?”

He couldn’t see her, but somehow he could _feel_ her smug smile.

“Listen.”

As he had earlier, Jack once again strained his ears. And, once again, received only silence in response.

At first.

Gradually though, gradually he started to hear something. Muffled at first, then louder, the sounds of a small skirmish. Eventually the sounds got close enough for Jack to make out a familiar curse muttered around a cigarette and a loud thud followed by a soft spoken “sorry mate,” announcing the arrival of Bert and Cec respectively. 

“Your red raggers?” he confirmed over the sound of someone inelegantly picking the lock.

“Mmmmm. I take risks, Jack, but I’m not reckless. If I got caught, they were supposed to wait half an hour and then stage a rescue.” He felt her shrug. “I guess it’s been thirty minutes.”

“Albert wasn’t supposed to come get me this time?” he asked dryly, recalling their very first case.

“Of course not, Jack, I knew you’d be here with me; that’s how I knew I’d be fine for half an hour.” She turned her head to the side, her voice suddenly softer. “Because you’re right, we’re complementary. And I know you too.”

Jack twisted his head around as well, so that they were parallel to each other. His cheek brushed her hair and the sensation was both new and comforting. She — 

“Wait, you heard me? I thought you were asleep!”

“Well... maybe I was awake for a bit of it,” she confessed. He felt her smile again. Couldn’t say he minded. “Now pull the rope taut as you can, Jack: it will cut faster that way and we have plans for the night.”

“Do we?”

“Mmmm. Assuming you’re quick about arresting Miller, we can dig into some of those fantasies you’ve been having and I can show you what to do with rope when you’re not compensating for anything.”

The door swung open before he could actually respond, but the words were on his lips and in his mind.

_“Miss Fisher, you’re going to be the death of me.”_

Couldn’t say he minded.

***

_aurora_australis_


	24. Parallels

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought of this idea and was really happy with it, only to realize that the "parallel" I was dreaming up might not be spotted right away. Oh well. (Hint, it's the moles)  
It's a bit of a silly idea, I'll admit. I first wanted to do something with scars, but my fantastic co-collaborator aurora_australis already wrote a fic during Whumptober about scars "A Scarred Sky Shines" (GO CHECK IT OUT IF YOU HAVEN'T, I'LL WAIT). The soulmate/-mark trope has been explored in this fandom before I believe so anyway...

***

***

_LeChatNoir1918_


	25. Holy

“What are you thinking?”

Her voice was soft and curious and at the sound Jack slowly opened his eyes, a little surprised by the question. She was propped up on a pillow looking down at him, her dark hair falling forward, her palm warm on his cheek. It wasn’t unusual for her to ask of course, she often investigated his silences as diligently as any other case. But she’d been somewhat quiet herself this morning, so the inquiry was slightly unexpected. Not unwelcome, though. Never unwelcome.

Jack smiled, turning his head slightly to kiss her palm.

“I love your hands,” he told her. She blinked, then laughed.

“Do you then? And I suppose you’d enjoy a demonstration of their skills, hmmm?”

She made to remove her palm from his cheek, doubtless to move it south, but to her surprise he stopped her, placing his own hand over hers.

“Not what they can do,” he clarified. “Just... them. I love when they grip my arm on the street, grab my wrist to check my watch for the time, brush my hair back when it comes loose, hold my own hand in the theatre.” He nuzzled a little more into her palm. “Touch my face. I just... love your hands.”

She smiled at him, clearly pleased, but the small furrow of confusion in her brow told him she was not fully satisfied by the answer. She didn’t push through, just stroked his cheek softly and waited. He closed his eyes and tried to put his feelings into words.

“When we first met,” he began, opening his eyes again. “I’d been living alone for more than two years. And my family, as you know, is mostly in Canberra now. It was fine, of course. _I_ was fine. I had my mates and my work and a life that made me happy. Mostly. And then you showed up. And you were always… touching me.”

“Well you’re very touchable,” she explained with a suggestive waggle of her eyebrows.

“Thank you,” he laughed. “But that’s not my point. I think… I think in the time between my former wife leaving and you arriving, I had forgotten how _necessary_ that connection is. That touch.” He sighed, a little saddened not by what he’d missed for a time out of circumstance, but for the man he was then who had not realized he was missing anything at all.

“But sometime into our acquaintance,” he continued, “I became aware that I had been going weeks at a time without physical human contact. I wasn’t _alone_, of course, but… well, a person’s mates or colleagues or favorite bookseller doesn’t touch them the way someone who loves them does. Or at least _mine_ don’t,” he added with a small down-turned smile and a considering look at her that made her laugh.

“And then these,” he took her small hands in his own, “wonderful, delicate, glorious hands stormed into my life like tiny toy freight trains — ”

“_Charming_ toy freight trains,” she corrected.

“Charming toy freight trains,” he conceded, “and reminded me that I _like_ to be touched. That it was alright to desire that connection, and that I was deserving of it if I did.” He huffed out a small laugh. “That sounds rather depressing as I say it out loud.”

“It’s not,” she assured him quietly. “It’s lovely.” She intertwined their fingers and pulled their joint hands towards her, kissing the back of his as she did. “You deserve the world, Jack Robinson, and I would give you all of it if I could.” 

He smiled up at her — the most besotted man on the planet he was sure, but she deserved the world too — intent on pulling her down for his own demonstration, but, realizing she was lost in thought, stopped himself.

“Phryne?” he asked softly, bringing her back from her musings.

“Sorry, I was just wondering, is that why… You touched people a lot, Jack. When we first met. Something I noticed about you. You were always patting Hugh on the back, consoling victims, even…” she swallowed and avoided his eyes for half a moment, “even holding Concetta’s hand. Is that why you did it? Because you knew how comforting it was?”

He tilted his head in consideration. “I suppose. Not consciously, of course, but it makes sense.” 

“Never me, though,” she reminded him, matter-of-factly. “Or almost never anyway.”

“No,” he agreed. “As little as possible, certainly.”

“Why?” she asked. 

It was a fair question, he knew, and deserved an honest response.

“Because I never would have stopped,” he confessed, reaching up with his free hand to tuck her hair behind her ear. 

Phryne smiled slyly and pulled his other hand to her lips once more, caressing words against his skin, the sound and the touch making him shiver despite the warmth of the day. “This holy shrine,” she murmured, “the gentle sin is this: My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand, To smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss.”

Jack waited only a moment before flipping her beneath him, her laughter as loud as her words had been soft. “Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much, Which mannerly devotion shows in this, For saints have hands that pilgrims' hands do touch, And palm to palm is holy palmers' kiss.”

Phryne reach up to pull him down to her. “Then move not, while my prayer’s effect I take.” She kissed him, slow and sweet. “There: my sin is purged.”

“My darling, Miss Fisher,” he replied dryly, “I’m quite sure your sins are too many and varied to be mentioned, let alone purged.”

She grinned. “Fair enough. Better give me my sin again, then, Inspector.” She kissed him once more, not slow or sweet at all this time.

When she pulled back — for air he suspected smugly — she had a positively wicked expression on her face. She pushed him to his back and looked down at him once more. “So… you like it when I touch you here?” 

She touched his cheek again.

“I do.”

“Anywhere else?” she asked, and this time the cheek was all her.

“Well…” he began, his own expression a poor affectation of innocence. “Perhaps one or two other places.”

“Are you going to tell me which ones?”

He shrugged, the implausibly virtuous expression on his face threatening to morph into a smirk at any moment. “You’re a detective - wouldn’t you rather investigate?”

With a twinkle in her eye she nodded solemnly and removed her hand from his face, moving it and herself down the bed, clearly on the case.

Jack lay back on the pillows, looked up at the ceiling and grinned.

He really did love her hands.

***

_aurora_australis_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The lines they speak are from _Romeo and Juliet_, with Phryne taking Romeo’s part and Jack Juliet’s. 
> 
> So I had to abandon my original idea, which definitely involved Jack’s braces, because it was much more an After Dark idea, but I’m really pleased with what I landed on instead. Two words - hand. holding.
> 
> Your move, LeChatty.
> 
> 😂


	26. Train

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I REALIZE THESE DON'T MAKE SENSE ANYMORE. (and I bet you weren’t expecting this when you read “train” 😆 “Holy” made me want to draw some VERY unholy things, but since this isn’t “AfterDark”...)  
At this point I'm just throwing random elements into these drawings and you can just interpret whatever you want into them (which I suppose you could, anyway) 😄💕  
Anyway, I've always loved the freight train comparison. Enjoy! (and never let me attempt to draw a windowpane again)

***

***

_LeChatNoir1918_


	27. Dear

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of hurt/comfort below. Nothing overwhelming (I'm still _me_ after all 😉 ), but feel free to skip if it's not your thing.

They were on a case, of course, when it happened. 

They’d been investigating the suspicious disappearance of a well-known, well-despised bookie who preyed on the poor, and were just leaving a rather disappointing interview in Collingwood, when they passed a small cluster of shops on the way back to his vehicle.

They were abandoned now, but had clearly been popular at one point, wear and tear evident from more than recent neglect. The store fronts were all empty, but the glass panes were still in place and as they passed the third one down, Phryne caught a glimpse of herself in the reflection and just… stopped.

Jack, whose arm she had been holding as they walked, was pulled back by the force of her shift in momentum.

He turned, about to make a joke about her being able to window shop even when there was nothing in the window, but the look on her face stopped him as short as her stride.

She looked… well, the phrase “like she had seen a ghost” felt a bit dramatic, but also correct in the moment.

“Phryne?” he asked, softly, not wanting to startle her. This suddenly felt horribly familiar.

She didn’t respond, just stared at the glass, her already pale skin now an almost worrying shade of white.

“Phryne. Phryne, love, it’s Jack.” He kept his tone calm, his voice soft. “You’re safe. You’re safe and you’re with me. We’re in — ”

“I know where we are, Jack.” Her voice was shaky as hell, but it was clear. He nodded, and didn’t press further, just held her hand tight while she caught her breath. Eventually she calmed enough to look away from the glass and readjust her sunglasses on her nose, the tears now gone, but the stains they’d left still visible on her cheeks.

With one final glance back at the window, she turned to walk again towards the car. “This used to be the nice part of Collingwood you know, back when I was a kid.”

They didn’t talk about what had happened for the rest of the day.

\---------------------

Jack lifted his hand to knock, brought it back down, lifted it again. He flexed the muscles, then tucked it back into his pocket to pull out his key instead. Today’s… incident, aside, she had always been clear that unless she explicitly said otherwise, he was welcome anytime day or night. And she had not said otherwise today. True, she hadn’t said much at all after Collingwood, but to assume she didn’t want his company tonight would be substituting his judgement for hers and that was something he never wanted to do.

The ground floor was quiet by the time he arrived, having been held up by some meetings at Russell Street he could not postpone. Out of habit and hope he stopped by the kitchen, and gloriously found a plate of sandwiches and a glass of whisky waiting for him. He polished off the sandwiches quickly, then took what was left of the whisky with him upstairs. When he reached Phryne’s bedroom he knocked softly with his free hand, and, upon hearing a faint “come in”, entered the room.

She was sitting in bed, dressed in her pale peach pajamas, a book in front of her that she wasn’t even pretending to read. She looked up as he entered and smiled at him, tired but sincere.

“Hello, Jack. How were your meetings?”

“Long and long-winded.” He leaned back against the door he had just closed and took a long sip of his drink. “Is this alright?”

“Is what alright?”

“Me. Being here. I can go home if you like. I wasn’t sure if… it seems my car came here out of habit.”

She raised her eyebrows and quirked her lips. “Then your car has more sense than you, Jack. Of course it’s alright.”

He nodded and finished off the whisky before placing the glass on the bedside table and making his way over to the dressing room where he kept his sleep clothes. He undressed quietly, before putting on his navy blue pajamas and making his way to bed.

Climbing under the doona, he picked up the closed book and examined it, before putting it beside his empty glass on the table.

“No love for Mr Lawrence tonight?”

She shrugged. “Well he’s no Mr Robinson,” she concluded, laying down next to him and resting her head on his chest. Jack lay back against the pillow, and reached up to stroke her hair. She was quiet for so long after that he thought she might have fallen asleep, until she reached up to hold his free hand with her own.

“Jack, about today…”

“You don’t need to tell me anything you don’t want to; you know that right?”

“I do. And I want to. That shop, the one I… it used to be a toy store. Well toy store / food store / general store combo I suppose. But the point is, they sold toys. And one year there was this teddy bear in the front window. It was small and sweet and Janey wanted it _so much_. She absolutely adored that bear.” Jack felt the curve of a small smile against his chest. “She even named it. And of course we couldn’t ask our parents for it because… well, you know. But she used to drag me to that shop window every day. Just to look at him. Captain Black Bear.”

Jack chuckled. “So he was a pirate too?”

“Of course,” Phryne confirmed. “Anyway, a month or so after we first saw The Captain, my aunt gave me some money for new clothes. She said there were so many holes in my dresses that I looked like I was wearing Swiss cheese instead of appropriate attire for a young lady.”

“Let me guess, you didn’t spend it on clothes.” He didn’t wait for an answer before holding her a little closer.

“No. No I hid it. And then I started hoarding every spare bit of change I could find, earn, or take from my father without him noticing. And I did well. I was determined to buy her that bear for Christmas, you see.”

“You didn’t just steal it?” he asked, remembering the swallow broach in the pawnbroker’s shop.

“I couldn’t risk it being reclaimed, Jack; this was for Janey.”

Jack nodded and held her closer still.

God he loved this woman.

She took a deep breath and continued. “Anyway, I _finally_ managed to save up enough. I was so happy. I’d planned to buy it before my birthday, but I never got the chance.”

The pieces fell into place for Jack all at once and his chest constricted with the revelation.

Christmas.

Christmas 1913.

The year Janey disappeared.

“The last time I’d seen my reflection in that window,” Phryne told him, her voice heavy with grief and memory, “Janey had been standing right there next to me.”

Jack swallowed, fighting the impulse to hold her closer still, lest his solace become unwelcome.

“I’m sorry,” he said simply.

“Me too,” she said. “But thank you.”

“Me? For what.”

“For listening. I should… I should talk about her more.”

Jack closed his eyes, nodded and stopping fighting his impulse.

He didn’t loosen his hold until he was sure she was asleep.

\---------------------

Weeks after that night, weeks after the case was closed - working together of course - Jack once again arrived at Wardlow, late and slightly nervous, but for an entirely different reason.

He found her in the parlour this time, cheerfully listening to the gramophone and drinking something a deep shade of purple. 

“Jack!” she greeted warmly when she saw him enter. “Excellent timing, darling, you’re just in time for cocktails.” She caught sight of the briefcase in his hand and cocked an eyebrow. “Or did you just bring work home?”

“No,” he assured her. “No work.”

She nodded and stood up, moving toward the drink cart. “Would you like one of these? No idea what’s in it, but Mr Butler made a pitcher and they’re absolutely marvelous.”

“Yes, thank you.” He took a seat in one of the chairs and put the briefcase on his lap, absently tapping the top of it with his fingers. Phryne returned quickly with a cocktail glass and a smile. “Here you go.” She handed him the drink, then eyed the briefcase with an amused expression. “I believe that is in my seat.”

Jack laughed and moved the case to the side, allowing her to drop into his lap. 

“See?” she asked. “Isn’t that better?”

“Much,” he agreed, reaching up to pull her down for a kiss. She tasted like gin and home. 

God he loved this woman.

The visceral reminder of how very much spurred him on and he took a deep breath, then gently removed her from his person. She frowned, but moved away, allowing him to pick up the briefcase once more. He opened it, pulled out some papers, and held them towards her. After less than a moment her curiosity got the better of her and she took them, retreating to the other chair to read them over. 

Jack sipped his drink and watched, waiting.

Phryne looked up, confused.

“Jack, what is this?”

“This is an idea. One I’ve had vaguely for a while, actually, but… but now it’s actually taking shape. And that is because of you.”

“Me?”

“You inspire me, Miss Fisher. Every day you inspire me. So I’m trying to pay some of that inspiration forward. This,” he tapped the papers she was holding, “is a new joint charity initiative between the Victoria Police and Firemen’s Associations. To be held every November and December, in every station and firehouse in Melbourne. Citizens donate toys and then volunteers at the stations distribute them to orphanages and foster homes. For Christmas.”

“A toy drive?” she asked.

“A city wide toy drive. Specifically,” he paused and coughed before sharing the last detail of the plan. “Specifically the Jane Fisher Memorial Toy Drive.” She gasped, and he hurried on. “If you want. If it’s alright with you. I would never want to presume, and nothing is final until you say so, but I thought — ”

“Jack,” she interrupted. “It’s lovely.” She looked down at all the papers, official documents from the Commissioner and Fire Chief’s offices, a somewhat stunned expression on her face. “You did all this?”

“Well I asked for Miss Ross’ help completing the proposal documents. She graciously agreed.”

Jane, now sixteen and determined to become a lawyer, had, in fact, burst into tears when he’d asked for her assistance before hurriedly assuring him that she would do everything she could to help. 

“Still… this is incredible,” Phryne said, her tone slightly amazed. “You got all of these departments to agree to this?”

Jack shrugged. “Every child deserves a bear at Christmas,” he said quietly. “And we should talk about her more.”

Phryne choked in a breath, but she was smiling as she did. She dashed a tear from her eye, then reached out to clasp his hand with her own. “You are... the dearest man.”

Jack brought her hand up to his lips and kissed her palm. “And you, my love, are dear to me.”

She nodded in understanding, then looked back down at the papers, composing herself as she eyed them with the shrewd gaze of a seasoned businesswoman. “A minor miracle the Commissioner agreed to the title though,” she said after a moment. “He’s much more the ‘name everything after himself’ type.”

“He is, yes,” Jack agreed. “But I may have intimated that this would put him solidly in Prudence Stanley’s good graces for the foreseeable future.”

Phryne laughed. “Well played, Inspector, well played.”

Jack winked and smiled at her, his face thoroughly besotted he was sure.

He didn’t care though, because when she looked back, her expression reflected his own. She felt the same way he did, which was all the miracle Jack would ever need.

Because god… he _loved_ this woman.

***

_aurora_australis_


	28. Bear

***

***

_LeChatNoir1918_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. I really don't know either. 
> 
> 2\. Phrack teleportation to North America?
> 
> 3\. Sorry for the whiplash between Aurora's beautiful and emotional drabbles and... this?
> 
> 3.1. I couldn't combine all the things the previous chapter made me feel into one image. So I went with "bear".
> 
> 4\. How does one draw bears? 
> 
> 5\. Sorry, Aurora


	29. Bare

In the heat of the moment, it had just been instinct.

Get to the stage. Grab the axe. Break the glass. 

After though… after he had time to think. To feel.

He hated it.

He stood alone backstage, his constables clearing the last of the patrons from the theatre, the killer in chains in the front row. 

His hands were on the wall, palm to brick, trying to ground himself in the moment. 

It didn’t help.

He took great, deep, gulping breaths of air, as though he had been the one underwater, starved of oxygen. Dying.

He had seen men drown before, in blue ocean, in French mud, in green gas. 

And this… this had been too close. _They_ were too close.

It would be her face he saw in his nightmares tonight.

“Are you alright, Jack?”

He jumped at the sound of her voice, unaware until that moment he wasn’t alone anymore.

He pushed off the wall, tried to compose himself, turned to face her.

She was still wearing that ridiculous outfit, a used towel in one arm, a deep blue dressing gown in the other.

She took one look at him and gentled her movements. “Jack?” she said again, slowly, calmly.

He nodded. Tried to make a joke, couldn’t make a sound.

She took a hesitant step forward, then another, then another, until she was standing right in front of him.

She was too close.

He raised his arm to guide her away, but his hand found her cheek instead, cupped it softly. She looked slightly surprised, but stayed very, very still. She watched his face carefully, but made no other movement. Then his fingers, without his permission or direction, traveled gently down to rest just below her clavicle. Palm to skin.

He felt the rise and fall of her chest. Air in. Air out.

He grounded himself in that.

After a long, long moment, he let his hand fall away. Took a step back, then another.

Phryne sensed the change. Took a step back herself.

“I believe everyone is assembling in front of the stage,” she told him quietly.

He nodded. “I’ll be right there.” 

She gave him a small smile, then turned to leave.

Jack let out a long, slow breath. 

Well that had been… fuck.

She knew now. Nerve tonics and misunderstandings and one drink too many aside, she _knew_.

Too close indeed.

In that moment, she might have been the one undressed, but Jack was the one who was bared.

***

_aurora_australis_


	30. Underwater

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi there and welcome back!!
> 
> Right, obviously it's been a while (sorry about that😅). Buuuut, I am super happy to dive back into drawing, especially if it means finally continuing this series! (A purely selfish desire to read more of Aurora's writing might also have factored in.)
> 
> On that note, you should definitely reread the last chapter (and really, everything) because it's beautiful and I just want to reiterate how honored I am to be collaborating with someone as amazingly talented as aurora_australis.

***

***

_LeChatNoir1918_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Giant thank you to my partner in crime for being so patient with me 😄😘


	31. Joy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LeChatty, you beautiful, talented, brilliant, powerful musk ox, have I mentioned lately how thrilled I am that you're back?
> 
> Because I absolutely am. ❤️

After they officially became official, there were those in her orbit (in his too if he was being totally honest) who probably assumed she’d brought him back to life.

It was a believable enough narrative from the outside he supposed.

It was also not true.

Before he’d met Phryne Fisher, he hadn’t simply been a husk of a man, going through the motions, joyless and morose. He’d been happy, enough, and certainly content.

She hadn’t saved him, at least, not from desolation (head injuries were another matter altogether).

What she had done was make everything more fun.

Literally, everything.

Stakeouts were more enjoyable with her dry wit (and sometimes wet clothes).

The theatre was more entertaining with her quiet and thoughtful analysis (even the operettas).

Dinners were more lively with her stories and draughts were more entertaining with her scandalous attempts to cheat (or at the very least distract).

Even gardening — already a joy — was more pleasant, her running commentary on his efforts both highly amusing and hilariously inaccurate (Phryne was a dreadful botanist).

And while there was nothing better than an afternoon by the seaside, a day at the beach with her became, well, a day at the beach.

So, no, Phryne didn’t save his life. But she did improve it, in a thousand small, immeasurable ways. She made the little moments better and the big moments exceptional. And, as a result, there was no one else he enjoyed being around quite as much.

And that, Jack realized one day, was love.

He told her, once, that she made life more fun. She’d surprised him by saying he did the same for her.

“How?” he asked, genuinely curious.

“Well...” she told him with a slow forming grin, “your exasperation makes every outrageous gambit that much more enjoyable.”

He’d rolled his eyes and she’d laughed in delight. “See!” she’d said, before attacking him with kisses.

Outrageous.

Still… he hoped it was true. She brought so much light into the world, it would be a privilege to give some back.

Because shared sorrow may be half a sorrow, but shared joy… shared joy was Phryne Fisher.

***

_aurora_australis_


	32. Memories

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I loved every single part of the last chapter. That's that.  
Mad respect to you for capturing them perfectly as always, Aurora. ❤️
> 
> P.S.: I know the newspaper article is supersized but I just couldn't make it work any other way 😂

_***_

_***_

_LeChatNoir1918_


	33. Stitch

“The curse of the love sweater" is a term used by knitters to describe the belief that if a person gives a hand-knit sweater to a significant other, it will lead to the end of the relationship, usually by the recipient breaking up with the gift giver. It was a misfortune Jack’s otherwise pragmatic mother believed in so thoroughly that she applied it to all knitwear and strongly discouraged Jack’s sister from gifting any once she was old enough to have beaus of her own.

Being neither a regular knitter nor a frequent recipient of handmade garments, Jack never really paid much attention to the curse himself.

Until that fateful footy match, when his Abbotsford scarf had become hers. 

No, that’s not right. It wasn’t until after. When he was pulling up to a car wreck, and all he could think about was the look on her face as he’d placed that scarf around her neck and how giving it to her had somehow caused this.

It wasn’t logical but neither were curses.

And then it didn’t matter that it was the wrong scarf around the wrong neck in the wrong car; it was over. And his mother had been right.

He should never have given her that scarf.

It took him longer than he was proud of to change his mind about that.

\---------------------

“Jack?”

“Mmmmm?”

“What are you reading?”

Jack briefly looked up from his book. “_A Room of One's Own_,” he told her. “Essays by Virginia Woolf. You’d like it,” he mentioned absently, reluctant to be pulled away from the section he was currently engrossed in.

Lying on her stomach with her legs crossed in the air, Phryne looked impossibly bored, but she perked up slightly at his assertion. “Can I have it?” she asked.

“After I’m done,” he assured her, settling back against the headboard and trying to find the spot where he’d left off. His efforts were for naught, however, because in response Phryne let out a dramatic and petulant sigh that once again pulled his attention away from Miss Woolf. Jack rolled his lips to keep from smirking as he took off his reading glasses and closed the book. “Not a fan of your own reading material?” he asked.

Phryne flipped a page in her magazine. “It’s all I could find in here, one of Dot’s old homemaker publications. Which is helpful enough, but I can’t really get invested in how to brew the perfect cuppa.” She grinned at him. “Unless the answer is to add some rum.”

Jack chuckled. “You could go downstairs and find something else,” he suggested. “You do have an entire library.”

“Too far,” she whined, playing with the cuff of his pajama pants from her position perpendicular to him at the foot of the bed. “It’s taken years to make you a frequent visitor to my boudoir. I’m not ready yet to leave you alone in here, you might up and disappear on me.” She rolled her eyes as she said it, but he could hear a hint of truth in her words all the same; it had taken them a long time to get here and maybe they were both still a little worried it was too good to be true.

Well… that wouldn’t do at all.

Jack reached down the bed and pulled Phryne and her magazine up to lay on his chest. He opened the periodical so they could both see the pages and began flipping through idly.

“Well there must be something of interest in here…” He passed on several recipes and a few laundry tips before Phryne stopped his hand at an article titled, _25 Knitting Tips That Will Instantly Make You a Better Knitter_.

He raised his eyebrows at her in surprise. “Knitting?”

She shrugged innocently and pointed at a word on the page. “It caught my eye.”

Jack squinted, then rolled his eyes. “_Chock_, Miss Fisher. The word is “chock-full.”

“Oh. My mistake. But while we’re here, let's see if we can learn something, hmmm? My mother always said relationships were like knitting.”

“Did she?” Jack asked, a sudden twinge of something in his chest he couldn’t quite name. 

“Oh yes. Had a whole theory about it,” Phryne confirmed. “And look, she may have been right. Tip one, start with good quality ingredients and don’t skimp on thickness.” She lifted the doona, glanced down and then grinned up at him. “Check and check.”

Jack shot her a chastising look and pulled the doona back down. “I don’t have any tattoos, Miss Fisher, move along.”

“Spoilsport,” she muttered, already back to scanning the article. “Hmmm… texture, colour, gauge swatch… none of these are particularly helpful.”

Jack stroked her back as she read, a small frown on his face. Phryne looked up, a glint in her eye, probably about to make a smart comment about yardage, and noticed. 

“Jack?”

“Hmmmm?”

“Are you alright?”

“Yes, of course.” He forced a smile. “You were saying about gauge swatch?”

“Jack.” She gave him a knowing look and sat up. “What’s wrong?”

He sighed. There really were drawbacks to being involved with a detective. 

“I was just wondering about my scarf,” he admitted. “The Abbotsford one? Wondering what became of it, hoping it found a good home somewhere, that sort of thing.” 

It was the truth, even if it wasn't the whole truth.

“Oh is that all?” she asked. She bounded off the bed and into her closet. When she emerged a few moments later she was wearing it like a boa. “Tada!” she announced.

Jack stared at her in disbelief. “You kept it?” he asked, voice rougher than he had intended. 

“Of course.” She looked at him like he had two heads. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“I just assumed… after the car accident… I suppose I didn’t know of any reason you would.”

Phryne’s smile fell immediately. “Oh, Jack.” She sat back down on the bed and put her hand on his knee. “How could you… you gave me your footy scarf. I may be a lapsed Magpie, but I know what that meant. I would never — ” 

“It’s a scarf, Phryne. And I hardly gave you a reason to hang on to it.” He didn’t mention their estrangement; he didn’t have to. Instead he coughed and tried to make a joke. “I’m just saying, Hugh burned his for far less.”

Phryne watched him carefully and Jack shifted slightly under her keen gaze. Then she pulled the scarf off and lay it across both their laps. She pointed at a spot near the edge. “You gave me Charlie Freeman’s plates.” She moved her finger a little to the left. “You spoke to welfare on my behalf.” And little to the right. “You came to Queenscliff just because I asked and walked me home even though I didn’t.”

Jack frowned. “Phryne, what — ”

“Hush, I’m reminiscing.” She pointed at another stitch on the scarf. “You gave me a new appreciation for Shakespeare.” She smirked. “And heatstroke if we’re being honest.” She looked for another spot. “We shared cottage pie in a closet.” She trailed her finger along the wool. “You helped me… you helped me find Janey.”

Jack didn’t know what to say to that, so he just took her hand and squeezed. Phryne squeezed back and looked up at him. 

“My mother… my mother used to say that relationships were like knitting because each stitch is like a moment. And until you had enough stitches, until you could really see the pattern, you never knew what you were going to get.” Phryne moved her free hand up to his cheek, and Jack leaned into her palm on instinct. 

“Jack, even before we were… _we_, there were enough stitches. I could see the pattern. I knew… I knew who you were.” She rolled her eyes, but they were a little wet as she did. “The very least I could do was keep the scarf.”

Jack swallowed. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly.

“Don’t be,” she told him, blinking away any tears before they could fall. “We were both… the point is I wouldn’t have let this go then. And now…”

“And now?” he asked softly, pushing his luck a bit.

“Now there are as many moments worth remembering as there are stitches in this scarf. And I wouldn’t want to forget a single one.”

Jack looked down at the green and red garment under their joined hands. He had appreciated it before, of course, but now… now it was beloved.

He picked it up, wrapped it around her neck the same way he had so many months before. “You know what?”

“What?”

“I like your mother’s theory better.”

Phryne looked at him in amused confusion, but then he kissed her — the way he’d wanted to so many months before — and she melted into him instead. He kissed her and kissed her and kissed her, only pulling away for air when it became absolutely necessary.

“Well,” Phryne began, taking in some much needed oxygen herself. “I don’t know the alternative, but I think I like my mother’s theory better too.”

Jack laughed and then made to move the magazine, but something caught his eye.

“Actually, this may have some good tips after all,” he told her.

“Really?” Phryne asked skeptically.

“Hmmmm.” He waggled his eyebrows suggestively at her and read from the list. “Tip three, get in the mood.”

“Oh well.” She got up on her knees and licked her lips. “Check.”

“Practice new techniques…”

“I can think of a few,” she assured him.

He nodded as seriously as he could whilst actively making an article on knitting sound as dirty as possible. “It also recommends one use the Continental style.”

“Definitely,” she agreed. “Specifically French. Specifically now.” She read over his shoulder and grinned. “Oh I like this one - use your ‘smart’ fingers for better control.”

Jack didn’t need to be told twice. He tossed the magazine in the general direction of “away” and slowly lowered her to the bed. “You know it also suggested combined knitting. Perhaps we should give that a whirl.”

“Oh absolutely. And practice,” she reminded him as his smart fingers got to work. “It recommends lots and lots of practice.”

As she moved to give him better access her scarf fell to the floor. 

And just like that, Jack changed his mind. With all due respect to his mother and the curse, he decided he hadn’t been wrong to give Phryne the scarf. In fact, he hadn’t given it to her at all, only returned it to its rightful owner. It was her scarf and it had always been hers. Just like his heart. 

It wasn’t logical but neither was love.

And tomorrow he was returning the matching hat to her as well. 

***

_aurora_australis_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I reallllllly wanted to explore what was in that letter, but ultimately my eye kept going back to that gorgeous scarf. Honestly, LeChatty, I don't know how you do it. Your colors are always so vibrant, I'm in constant awe. ❤️
> 
> The curse of the love sweater is a real thing and super interesting because despite its name, the "sweater curse" is treated in knitting literature not as a superstition governed by paranormal forces, but rather as a real-world pitfall of knitting that has rational explanations. Look it up if you get a chance and, you know, care about sweater curses. 😂
> 
> All the knitting tips are really from an article I found titled [_25 Knitting Tips That Will Instantly Make You a Better Knitter_](https://knitom.com/25-knitting-tips-better-knitter/). I have no idea what smart fingers are, but I think Phryne is about to. 😉


	34. Curse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the hiatus! I wasn't sure how to match the brilliance of the last chapter (and don't think I did, venturing into oddly artistic, but anyway). "Curse", made me think of grandma Lin and her calling Phryne a fox spirit, which I know isn't in itself a curse, but anyway. 
> 
> As far as my research told me, fox spirits are a common motif in Asian mythology, mostly described as mischievous and tricking other people, usually in the form of beautiful young women who attempt to seduce men for their wealth, bodies, etc. These spirits are also seen as highly intelligent and wise, and in different versions of tales, can be very generous and warm. They also usually have 9 tails.
> 
> In any case, while Phryne would take any "insult" and turn it into something positive I'm sure, I think this one thrown by grandma Lin is especially fitting to a stereotype Phryne has to fight against, just because she dares to pursue her own pleasure. Considering the past Phryne has had with men, and who she is now, it seems an even more ludicrous claim to call her a "fox spirit", which is what I tried to show in the drawing (albeit with some degree of artistic license).
> 
> As with many of the labels women receive, they seem to stem from men (and grandmas, apparently) being threatened by beautiful, strong, intelligent and sensual women. And it makes me so happy that Phryne wears that badge with pride. (also shoutout to our very own Foxspirit1928 at this point, who did an excellent job picking her username <3) 
> 
> So while the idea of a fox spirit is not strictly a curse, I associated it with one in my head and who knows what grandma Lin's curse really contained? 😄

***

***

_LeChatNoir1918_


	35. Spirit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So Chapter 34, huh.... wow.
> 
> Some people call eyes the windows to the soul and those people are probably looking at a LeChatty drawing at the time. ❤️

Phryne looked around at all the men assembled, men of great station and very little substance, and rolled her lips to stop herself from saying something she might regret. Or, more likely, something she would quite enjoy and her parents would regret. But before she could decide if the distinction was important, the chimes from the hightower clock alerted the crowd that it was time to begin.

Finally.

Her father was busy with some earl he was trying to impress, so Phryne decided it was an excellent time to make her escape. Excusing herself from the chit chat and clip clops with nothing more than a polite nod to the Huntmaster, she maneuvered her own horse away and down the lane of her parents’ estate; she had performed her hostess duties admirably already and had no interest in what came next.

“Leaving so soon, Miss Fisher? You’re going to miss all the fun.”

Phryne turned her head to see Lord Morton trotting up the lane, his poor horse near groaning under the combination of his excess and ego. She mustered another polite smile.

“I’m afraid it’s not my idea of a good time, Lord Morton, and it’s never seemed like much fun for the fox either,” she told him as she continued on, leaving him puzzling at her answer. Before he could follow up with any further questions, though, she spurred on her steed, away from the pomp and circumstance and towards the outer fields, with a certain degree of speed.

Eventually she reached the edge of the property and, lungs feeling the exertion of the ride, stopped for a moment at the large wooden gate that led to the furthest woods. She sighed, wishing she could enjoy the ride, the view, the occasion, but she felt grey and dreary and unable to escape the fog of her own gloomy disposition. It was a nice enough day, weather wise, but she was in a mood, carrying her own storm cloud with her it seemed.

She tried to calm herself, but after a moment she gave up being reasonable and just kicked the gate.

This morning had been intolerable. Several hundred questions from several dozen aristocrats about her past misfortunes and her future prospects and her current “hobby.” That said hobby clearly meant both her detective work and Jack did not improve her mood.

And speaking of Jack, he had been no help at all, excusing himself early to go for a walk, claiming he couldn’t ride anyway, which she thought might well be a lie but couldn’t prove. Yet.

She kicked the gate again for good measure. 

Phryne didn’t even know why it was bothering her so much. It’s not like she hadn’t been subjected to such interrogations before. 

_Isn’t all the travel losing its charm?_

_When are you settling down?_

_Surely you can’t keep this up forever._

_How long are you home for this time?_

She wanted to scream. 

She kicked the gate instead.

Her spirits were low and her temper was high and that was never a good combination. Phryne sighed dramatically, tied the horse up to a post, and sunk to the ground before she really hurt herself or the fence in frustration. As she sat there, she idly fiddled with a blade of grass and wondered why she was so bothered.

Of course she knew. When she really thought about it she knew.

It was this place.

Home.

Sometimes here, here where she was _supposed_ to be, it felt harder. Harder to explain her reasons for leaving, her reasons for staying away.

_“Why?”_ her mother asked. Every time her mother asked. _“Why can’t you just stay?”_

Harder to disappoint her mother.

Here, Phryne felt like a child again, stifled and unable to make her parents understand. As an actual child, eventually she’d given up trying and just left. She had rejected this life, rejected it and forged her own path, and was, for the most part, extremely happy. But still it seemed she could not escape this life fully. Every so often it would tap her on the shoulder like an long ago acquaintance on the street, reminding her of who she had once been.

Young.

Dutiful.

Trapped.

_“You deserve a home, my darling, and you ran away so long ago — isn’t it time you came back?”_

No. 

No, and what’s more It was once again time to leave this place. She knew that. Had known it for days, which was why, if she was being honest with herself, this morning had been so unbearable. She was just not looking forward to the conversation that would precede her departure. The conversation that ALWAYS preceded her departure. 

_“Why can’t you just stay?”_

In response, Phryne let her head loll back onto the gate and tried to shut out the world. _Out of sight and all that_, she thought as she closed her eyes for several long, quiet minutes.

When she opened them again, she was not alone.

There, standing at attention not ten feet away, was a small, red fox.

She was a little thing, but her eyes… her eyes were keen and sharp and looking straight into Phryne’s own.

Phryne’s lips quirked up in a smile.

“They’re all looking for you, you know?”

The fox tilted its head at her, but otherwise did not reply.

“Don’t worry,” Phryne added conspiratorially, “your secret’s safe with me.”

The fox sniffed the air, and, after a brief pause, sat down in the grass as well.

“So,” Phryne asked, voice full of humour the animal in front of her almost certainly didn’t appreciate, “how’s your day going?”

The fox, unsurprisingly, did not answer.

“Me?” Phryne continued. “I’m trying to steel myself to breaking my mother’s heart, again, by running away from home. Again.”

Silence.

“You’re right, I am a grown woman, but she’s still my mother. I suppose she deserves a proper explanation as to why I’ve rejected all of this so many times.”

The fox looked anxious and Phryne nodded. “Yes, I know how you feel.” She paused, pulling another blade of grass from the ground. “I don’t suppose you have any suggestions?”

The fox blinked and Phryne sighed.

“You’re really no help at all, do you know that?”

Suddenly, without warning, the fox bolted up, staring off into the distance at what, Phryne did not know. But there was definitely something there and the fox was watching it carefully.

After a moment, Phryne heard it — dogs approaching, followed quickly by horses.

“Oh, well spotted,” Phryne murmured, briefly indulging the humorous thought that her little fox friends must say she had the eyes of a Phryne.

“You should probably go,” she added, but the fox did not move. “Back toward the estate or… something.”

The sounds were fast approaching, but the fox did not run, just looked at the gate intensely and Phryne was struck by a sudden flash of understanding, like when she was on a case and all the puzzle pieces flying about her brain suddenly arranged themselves in just the right order.

_“Why can’t you just stay?”_

The moment was like a lightning bolt and Phryne smiled, half relieved at the insight, half laughing at her own occasional obliviousness. 

“Yes,” she told the fox once more, “I know how you feel.”

Phryne hadn’t rejected home, because this place had never been home. Home didn’t keep you in with gates. So she had run and avoided but somehow, _somehow,_ she’d found it all the same. Her home was in Jane’s smile and Dot’s warmth and Mac’s laugh and Jack’s heart. And she wasn’t running away anymore, she was running toward something. Something wonderful. Her home. It wasn’t traditional but it was her own and she would not be kept from it anymore. And perhaps, this time, when her mother asked why, she would understand Phryne’s answer.

Phryne truly hoped she would.

Slowly, so as to avoid startling the little thing, Phryne stood and moved to the fence. Removing her lock picks from her décolletage — a lady always accessorized — she opened the lock and then the gate.

“Go on then,” she told the fox with a wink and a grateful smile. “I won’t tell.”

The little fox tilted its head at her and then bolted through the gate, down the path and towards the woods. Towards home, she assumed. 

Phryne truly hoped anyway.

Phryne closed the gate, relocked it and leaned back against it. A moment later the first rider came into view across the stream.

“That way!” she yelled, pointing back towards the estate. The Huntmaster tipped his hat to her and led the men and various animals away. She smiled to herself as she heard a voice to her right. 

“You could be charged with aiding and abetting a fugitive, Miss Fisher.”

“I could,” she acknowledged without acknowledging the speaker himself. “But I’d like to know where you’re planning to find a jury of her peers.”

“Probably not worth the effort,” he agreed.

“Probably not.” She finally turned to face him, frowning at his lack of horse. “How did you get out here?”

He gave her an adorable, crooked smile. “I have a love of solitary walks.”

“Mmmmmm,” Phryne hummed, swiveling her head to look over the gate. The fox was long gone.

Good for her.

“Where do you think she’s going?” Jack asked, scanning the same scenery with equally no luck.

“Home, I expect,” Phryne answered, leaning on the fence and turning to look at him once more.

“Really?” Jack seemed surprised. “With all that freedom?”

Phryne shrugged, the gesture deceptively casual for the epiphany she was currently having. “She is free, yes,” Phryne began slowly, “But I think, perhaps, somewhere out there is a dour, disapproving gentleman fox waiting to share her adventures all the same. And isn’t that a kind of home?”

The smile that positively lit up his face in response was very wide and a little wondering and all the more brilliant for its rarity.

Phryne found she couldn’t look away.

But she didn’t really want to either.

So she reached out and took his hand instead.

“Jack? Let’s go home.”

***

_aurora_australis_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Was Jack channelling Elizabeth Bennet for a minute there? Yes, yes he was.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Yes, And: AfterDark](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21798433) by [aurora_australis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aurora_australis/pseuds/aurora_australis), [LeChatNoir1918](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeChatNoir1918/pseuds/LeChatNoir1918)
  * [Drawn to Her](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27493621) by [aurora_australis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aurora_australis/pseuds/aurora_australis), [LeChatNoir1918](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeChatNoir1918/pseuds/LeChatNoir1918)


End file.
